


Out of the Question

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, there's the Ghost, the Dutchman, the Maven, Slippery Caesar," said Neal, casually. "Did you have an epithet for me?"</p><p>Set after 1.02.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Question

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sage and mergatrude for beta. &lt;3

"So." Neal leaned back in Peter's visitor's chair and twirled a pen between his fingers, looking far too smug for Peter's comfort. "Another successful bust, another feather in your cap."

"Looks that way." Peter refused to be distracted from the Ghovat arrest report. He typed another two paragraphs, printed it, stapled and signed it and then looked at Neal and sighed. "What?"

The pen stopped mid-twirl. "What what?"

"You tell me," said Peter. There probably wasn't anything, but it didn't hurt to bluff. If Neal was hiding something, Peter would get points for perceptiveness, and in the unlikely event that Neal didn't have any secrets at this particular moment in time, he was more than capable of inventing one on the spot.

But it was a question, not a secret, that Neal revealed. "So, there's the Ghost, the Dutchman, the Maven, Slippery Caesar," he said, casually. "Did you have an epithet for me?"

"Other than 'trouble'?" Peter filed the report in his out-tray. "Not since we've known your name. Jones tried calling you the Choir Boy for a while, but it didn't stick."

"The Choir Boy?" Neal frowned for a second, confused, before he got the reference. "Steve Tabernacle. Why would you think I had anything to do with—?"

Peter raised his eyebrows.

Neal hesitated, then shrugged, silently acknowledging that they'd managed to connect him with his alias. But he didn't drop the subject. "What about before you had a name? What did you call me then?"

"A pain in my neck." Peter dropped his stapler back in his desk drawer and looked at Neal. "That sonofabitch with the Gauguin."

The corner of Neal's mouth twitched, but he waited, meeting Peter's eye with unexpected intensity, as if the success of his former career hung in the balance.

"You never heard?"

Neal shook his head. "Never did."

"We called you the Thumbprint Kid," said Peter, more gently than he meant to.

Neal frowned again. This time it didn't clear. "The Thumbprint Kid."

"Yep."

"May I ask why?"

Peter grimaced, but there was no point holding out. If he didn't tell, Jones surely would. "When I pulled the Bierstadt out of the back of Max Whitcliff's closet, there was a partial thumbprint in the top, right-hand corner. Dirty gray."

Neal looked shocked. "Even if I'd been responsible for the Bierstadt, I would never have—"

"I know." Peter leaned his elbows on the desk and hunched forward. "We were pretty sure the Bierstadt was by the same guy who did the Eakins, and we thought with the thumbprint, we could nail him. You. Or at least narrow it down." He thought back, remembering the relief that the chase might be nearing its end, that they could finally move on to a new case, preferably one with a sloppier prey who left actual tangible clues. "We still didn't have a name, but you'd slipped up. With a print, we had evidence that would hold up in court. We could build a more reliable profile, and then it would only be a matter of time."

"It wasn't my print," said Neal, with complete conviction, and for a moment Peter could taste the resentment again, borne of nights on the road wishing he were home with El and the puppy, feeling outwitted, frustrated that this kid they couldn't get a fix on was running rings around them and laughing the whole time.

Well, he'd laugh now, for sure. "It was mine," said Peter. "I'd forgotten to wear gloves. Didn't notice when my thumb slipped from the frame."

Neal blinked. "Yours?"

"Yeah." Three hours of triumph, and then Lee from Forensics had called. Peter took a deep breath and shook off the past. "The name stuck, though. We called you the Thumbprint Kid for maybe another six months, and every time we did—" Peter shrugged. His cringe reaction had long since faded.

Neal was frowning—not puzzled now, but thoughtful. His eyes were intent on Peter's face. "I'm sorry."

"You were doing what you do." Peter sat back. When that wasn't enough, he got up and went to the window. The sky shone a challenging, unfathomable blue. Recycled office air tasted dry in his mouth.

"What I did," Neal corrected him, and Peter experienced a rare flicker of hope: that Neal would make good, that he would find some other, legal way to get attention. That they would learn to trust each other, become partners—maybe even friends.

Or not.

Neal's expression was too warm, reflecting Peter's hope, shading into an intimacy that was out of the question. Too soon, too much. "Caffrey," said Peter, reaching for his jacket, "I'm going home to spend the weekend with my wife. Think you can behave yourself for the next forty-eight hours?"

Neal gave him a lopsided smile that segued back to smug, back where they'd started. Peter didn't trust that smile for a second. Even so, he had to laugh at Neal's reply.

"I can keep my nose clean," he said. "My thumbs too. See you Monday, Peter."

"Yeah," said Peter, ignoring the now-familiar misgivings. He could check Neal's tracker any time he wanted to. Beyond that, he just had to pray. "See you Monday."

END


End file.
